Shieldbreaker's Story

by Fred Saberhagen

  Before Stephen could travel more than a few blocks from the house of Ben of Purkinje, his riding-beast pulled up lame.

  Bad luck, he thought, bad luck. Well, it should be easy enough to obtain another animal.

  As Stephen got down from the saddle, he stepped accidentally upon a pebble in the street, twisting his ankle painfully.

  * * *

  Meanwhile, the roof-top conference, where Amintor sat thinking about Stephen and toying with the hilt of the Sword of Chance, was not yet over. The two partners still sat at the table, old Karel standing beside them, the elder’s helpless eye’s fixed with an expression of seeming contentment upon something in the far distance.

  Vilkata was saying that it was imperative that Amintor, even before beginning his search for Stephen, dispatch marching orders to his army.

  “My swiftest demon will convey them—I presume you have some capable wizard in your camp? At least one who can hold intelligent converse with a demon without retching or fainting?”

  The junior partner assented meekly. “I am served by several who are more than merely capable, Majesty—though, of course, none of them approach your stature.”

  The Baron went on to assure his partner that his army was waiting for orders, that it was ready to march, to fight lustily, to conquer, in whatever cause he might choose to assign it. The five thousand or so fighting men and male and female enchanters, and those commanding their associated beasts of war, were purely mercenaries.

  The need to continue to feed, maintain, and inspire this army provided a strong argument that Amintor ought to be allowed to retain the Sword of Chance.

  A force of only five thousand men would be ineffective if scattered around the countryside. Both men agreed that Amintor’s army, or the bulk of it, ought to stay together and march to Sarykam as quickly as it could—doubtless it would prove necessary for the men to fight their way in across the Tasavaltan frontier. At the moment there were no large Tasavaltan units known to be in position to block such an invasion, but certainly spirited resistance could be expected, especially after word reached the frontier patrols of the disaster at Sarykam. Therefore the success of the invasion could not be automatically guaranteed.

  Vilkata spoke of being ready to employ his demons more energetically and of devising further schemes to get as much use as possible out of his converts before their usefulness should turn to treachery. At the proper moment he would dispatch such a ground-air force to join with the reinforcements soon to be approaching in the form of Baron Amintor’s army.

  And Amintor voiced his approval of Vilkata’s gathering thousands of hostages.

  * * *

  Within a matter of a few minutes, the new partners had dispatched a demonic messenger carrying a handwritten and personally identified note from Amintor, complete with personal token, to the experienced officer the Baron had left in command of his five thousand or so men when he himself had gone following Coinspinner off to Sarykam. Acknowledgment of the message could be expected within the hour, if all went well.

  * * *

  Amintor was gone to prepare for his Sword-hunt. The Dark King, still seated at the table, with crushed husks of fruit around him, turned his eyeless countenance up to Karel, who still stood by faithfully. “Well, old man?”

  “Sire?”

  “Tell me something—profound—about the Swords. You are still loyal to me, for a little while as yet, and you know as much or more than any human about this handiwork of Vulcan. I am interested in how you foresee the course of the Great Game.”

  Karel hesitated. Then, gazing into the distance, his voice grown vaguer and softer than ever, he stated that anyone keeping track of such things must realize that if this recent rate of Sword-destruction should persist, the time was fast approaching when a majority of the gods’ weapons would have perished from the Earth.

  Karel noted also that the balance between destroyed and active Swords was now approaching the point of even numbers. Townsaver, Doomgiver, Dragonslicer, Wayfinder, and the Mindsword all were gone. But there still endured Stonecutter, Woundhealer, Shieldbreaker, Coinspinner, Farslayer, Soulcutter, and Sightblinder to tempt and afflict humanity.

  Vilkata in turn revealed to the helpless Karel his plan ultimately to gather all the remaining Swords, acquiring them by one means or another, one by one, and as soon as possible destroy them, retaining only Shieldbreaker, the maximum weapon, for himself.

  “Destroy them all,” the uncle of Princess Kristin muttered. “Destroy the Swords.”

  “Yes, old man. I tell you it seems impossible to impose true order on the world as long as they exist.”

  Vilkata’s long-range plan, on his return from the Moon, had been to do his best to conquer and rule the world with one Sword—preferably the Mindsword, which he had then possessed. But now, with a smile of satisfaction, he said to Karel that it was probably just as well things had worked out as they had. Shieldbreaker was superior to Skulltwister. Because, among other things, having the Sword of Force made possible a systematic attempt to annihilate the rest of the output of Vulcan’s forge.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Amintor, energized by the powerful stay-awake magic so efficiently administered by his senior partner, paced the alley and yard behind the palace stables in a swift restless limp, barking impatiently at nearby converts, damning their clumsiness, demanding they bring him a totally acceptable mount—he’d already rejected two riding-beasts as looking spiritless. In some ways the stay-awake spell had made the Baron feel twenty years younger, but in other ways he had retained his age; his joints still ached, and he found himself puffing when he began to pace too rapidly.

  It was now around midday, the sun as close as it was going to get to overhead, and the Baron had not slept for approximately twenty-four hours. He could remember this fact clearly, but the lack of sleep seemed to carry no mental or physical impact. At the moment weariness and rest were among the farthest things from his mind.

  Foremost in his thoughts at the moment was the impression that the Dark King’s convert and demon forces, despite their relatively small numbers, were tightening his grip on the city with fair efficiency. From where the Baron paced, he could both see and hear the hundreds of hostages crammed into one of the sealed-off courtyards nearby. More prison-voices came floating up out of the heavily barred ground-level windows behind which a dungeon had been improvised. More hostages were constantly being brought in, and Amintor wondered vaguely where Vilkata thought he was going to put them all.

  At this moment old Karel, who had been detailed to accompany Amintor on the hunt for Stephen, came stalking out of the palace to talk to the Baron while they both waited for the routine stable preparations to be completed. Amintor was eager to bring Karel with him on the search for Prince Stephen. Certainly the old wizard, Princess Kristin’s uncle, was well acquainted with Prince Stephen and with the city. Also he probably knew as much about Sword-magic as anyone in the world—except, of course, the inimitable Master. It would be a pity to waste that knowledge. The Baron thought that in the remaining hours of the old man’s life, before Karel’s conversion began to wear off and it became necessary to dispose of him, his help could be invaluable.

  Now a fresh sound of hooves echoed sharply from the walls of stone enclosing the stable-yard. With glad cries a lackey announced that the Baron’s own riding-beast had just been located, and now it was being brought back to him.

  Amintor, a vein swelling in his forehead, waved away this gracious present with an oath, startling and upsetting the convert who’d hoped ardently to be helpful to one so exalted as the Master’s partner. The Baron, hand on Swordhilt, shouted to the convert lackeys that he wanted a fresh animal, not one already run half to death. Surely the Tasavaltan stables offered a number of good choices?

  Attendants scurried to satisfy his demands.

  * * *

  Now Amintor and Karel both flinched, as there came an unwelcome swirling of nauseating presences about their heads; both wer
e well aware that the Dark King had assigned a pair of demons to accompany them on their search. The announced purpose of having the creatures on the search for Prince Stephen was to provide a swift means of communication with Vilkata; but Amintor had no doubt that they were also under orders to keep an eye on him for their Master. There appeared to be no good way for the men to get rid of the unwelcome creatures.

  At least, Amintor supposed, the foul things ought to be constrained to obey his orders, or most of his orders, and he could keep them from hanging over him like poison mist. “Take some approximation of human form!” he snapped.

  In a moment the poisonous-looking mist had coalesced into shapes of solid appearance. The foul fiends now appeared as a rather ugly manservant and his wife, standing beside the humans in the stableyard. The Baron was relieved to find that they obeyed him.

  Now the last members of the search party arrived—an escort of human converts armed mundanely. These were a squad of regular Tasavaltan soldiers, augmented by a few civilian volunteers. Mounts were soon provided in sufficient number—even for the demons, though they certainly could have kept up on foot—and all was at last in readiness.

  The search party, the Baron leading with Coinspinner in hand and vibrating, cantered out through one of the great gates of the palace.

  * * *

  Stephen, meanwhile, had been unable to make any headway at all in his effort to return Sightblinder to his parents. A series of unlucky happenings had prevented the young Prince from even leaving the neighborhood of Ben’s house.

  The bad luck had been so pervasive that the fugitive had already begun to suspect strongly that the Sword of Chance must be in action against him. The second mount obtained by Stephen had run away, and the third had also been disabled before it could be ridden any meaningful distance. Fortunately he himself had suffered no additional injury; evidently whatever individual enemy was being served by Coinspinner did not want the young Prince dead, or seriously hurt—the idea, simply and ominously, must be to keep him where he was.

  Exhaustion soon set in, and Stephen slept again, once more lightly concealed among the bushes of Ben’s garden, stretched out upon the flat of Sightblinder’s blade.

  * * *

  Stephen awakened from this second sleep to find that his most recently lamed riding-beast was nuzzling at the back of his neck. He turned over and began a mumbled protest, then suddenly pushed the animal’s head aside and sat up straight. Ten meters away, a small band of mounted men—two of them looked to be more or less than men—had come riding into the extensive walled garden of Ben’s house. They were halted now, ten meters away, shifting uneasily in their saddles and looking at the young Prince with expressions he could not immediately interpret.

  In the next moment Stephen realized that one of the mounted men was Karel. Another of them, who looked as old as the Tasavaltan wizard, held a Sword half-drawn from the scabbard at his side. Coinspinner, the young Prince realized suddenly, his perception sharpened by the magic of his own Sword. He could only hope that the Sword of Chance, powerful as it was, could not recognize Sightblinder as an opposing factor, and would not be able to deal with it effectively.

  * * *

  Amintor and those with him, led to this spot by the Sword of Chance, had reined in sharply on catching sight of the figure among the bushes. Looking toward Stephen, the members of the search party saw—never doubted they were seeing—the Dark King himself, Vilkata, now rising from an inexplicable prone position to his feet, then swinging himself up into the saddle of a restive griffin.

  The pursuers, gazing at a collective image of Vilkata—whom they visualized as holding in his hand the Sword of Force—were taken aback, perturbed, to see that the Master had evidently got ahead of them somehow to this unlikely place, and even gave the impression that he had been waiting for them.

  “Master?” Karel called tentatively.

  * * *

  The young Prince experienced a moment or two of hideous fright before that word reassured him, informed him of exactly who his discoverers thought he was.

  * * * * * *

  More than one of the searchers were thinking it odd that Vilkata, with a whole palace and its people now at his disposal, had chosen to come into an enemy’s garden and lie down alone under a hedge—but still it did not occur to any of them to doubt for an instant that they were really looking at Vilkata.

  Amintor, wishing to hold converse with his senior partner, moved as if to urge his riding-beast a little closer.

  But instantly, to his amazement, the Baron’s own Sword, twitching and tugging in his hand, warned him sternly not to advance.

  Warily Amintor reined in his mount. Then he began, from a respectful distance, to issue a hopeful report on the progress of the pursuit of Stephen, with some additional remarks on the gathering of hostages.

  In the eyes of those hunting him Stephen’s lamed riding-beast still appeared to be a saddled demon or griffin; but now the animal moved uneasily, and the lad hopped down from the saddle briskly before he could be thrown. It seemed to the beholders that their Master was now minded to stay with them for some serious discussion.

  Meanwhile the young Prince was doing his best to think what his next move should be. He understood with a pang that Karel was still under Skulltwister’s spell. Stephen had heard of the adventurer Baron Amintor, though never actually laid eyes on him before, and, aided by Sightblinder’s enhanced perception, he thought he recognized the Baron now. This identification was confirmed when Stephen heard Karel address the scoundrel by name, in tones of respect that Stephen found sickening.

  When Amintor momentarily urged his mount forward, Stephen made ready to stab the man as soon as he came close enough—after making as sure as possible that this enemy wasn’t armed with Shieldbreaker.

  For a moment Stephen hovered on the brink of swirling away the two demonic members of the search party—but he held back, fearing to reveal his own identity and accomplish nothing. It would be better, much better, to kill the Baron if he could … and there was Karel. If only he could find some way to set the powerful wizard free. …

  Of course, as Stephen fully realized, great caution was necessary in opposing, let along trying to kill, anyone who was holding Coinspinner. Until now, the bad luck inflicted upon him by the Sword of Chance had been minimal, a mere holding action sufficient to prevent his escape. One of the facts that had been drilled into the young Prince during his lifelong education in the matter of Swords was that killing someone armed with the Sword of Chance was well-nigh impossible, and trying to do so was a good way to attain an early end oneself.

  * * *

  Meanwhile Coinspinner in the hunter’s hand was continuing to behave erratically. That weapon was now signalling its owner to keep back, remove himself to an even greater distance from the dangerous illusion that he faced all unaware. The rest of Amintor’s party started uncertainly to move with him.

  Stephen called: “What are you doing?”

  The Baron, hearing the words in the Dark King’s commanding voice, hesitated briefly. But then the obvious explanation for his own Sword’s peculiar behavior occurred to him.

  He replied as calmly as he could. “Of course Your Majesty is armed with Shieldbreaker—I suppose that’s why Coinspinner here is giving me erratic signals.” Patting his black hilt, Amintor peered more closely at the figure before him. Still, no suspicion that he was not looking at Vilkata found room in his thoughts.

  The young Prince was silent, thinking furiously of what he ought to say and do. He was afraid, but not so much of men or demons as of failure, of losing another Sword as he had lost Shieldbreaker. …

  The guilt of that loss now struck Stephen with renewed force. Now he knew beyond any doubt that Vilkata—who was, fortunately, not here—must indeed have been given Shieldbreaker by the demon.

  The Baron meanwhile had begun to deliver a kind of non-report, in respectful tones, from the back of his riding-beast, and from a timid, rather inconveni
ent distance.

  Stephen, listening, soon had confirmation, if any were needed, that he himself was being eagerly sought by the enemy.

  But he could see that Coinspinner was even now urging its owner to retreat. Why—?

  And then, in a flash of revelation, Stephen understood.

  “Baron!” He tried to make his voice that of a tyrant who tolerated nothing less than instant obedience—he could only trust that Sightblinder would help him to succeed. “You will hand over Coinspinner to me. Now.”

  Amintor’s mouth fell open at this belated acceptance of his earlier gift, even as the Sword of Chance redoubled its signals advising him to beat a swift retreat—but the Baron, totally convinced that he was confronted by Vilkata with Shieldbreaker, this once did not take his own Sword’s advice.

  He had planned no specific treachery against Vilkata—as yet there had hardly been an opportunity to do so. And now it might well be that he was doomed. The Baron concealed his own rage and desperation behind a smile. It would be useless to disarm himself and try to leap upon the Dark King—one of the fanatical converts watching jealously would skewer him in an instant, or a demon’s claws would find his flesh. …

  As for the Dark King’s demand, the Baron had no choice but to comply, swallowing his own anger, for the time being, as best he could. With shaking fingers Amintor began to unbuckle his swordbelt. Then he dismounted and carried the treasure to his lord.

  * * *

  Feeling the double burden of Sword-magic once more come upon him as he did so, Stephen grasped the black hilt of the Sword of Chance, letting sheath and belt fall free. He needed guidance, required all the help that he could get. His brain once more buzzing and swirling with the psychic burden of two Swords, he decided uncertainly that he ought to kill this man—though it was going to be hard to do that in cold blood.